Yo San entered with a folded newspaper, and a plate of letters for Felicity. She handed one to Stefan. “Monsieur Adolph leave this,” she said.
Disregarding the paper, Felicity glanced through her mail, and abstracted a thick envelope addressed in Constance's sprightly hand. Stefan's letter was from Mary; he moved to the end of the balcony and tore it open. A banker's draft fell from it.
“Good-bye, Stefan,” he read, “I can't forgive you. What you
have done shames me to the earth. You have broken our marriage.
It was a sacred thing to me—now it is profaned. I ask
nothing from you, and enclose you the balance of your own
money. I can make my living and care for the children, whom
you never wanted.”
The last three words scrawled slantingly down the page; they were in large and heavier writing—they looked like a cry. The letter was unsigned, and smudged. It might have been written by a dying person. The sight of it struck him with unbearable pain. He stood, staring at it stupidly.
Felicity called him three times before he noticed her—the last time she had to raise her voice quite loudly. He turned then, and saw her sitting with unwonted straightness at the table. Her eyes were wide open, and fixed.
“I have a letter from Connie.” She spoke almost crisply. “Why did you not tell me that your wife was enceinte?”
“Why should I tell you?” he asked, staring at her with indifference.
“Had I known it I should not have lived with you. I thought she had let you come here alone through phlegmatic British coldness. If she lost you, it was her affair. This is different. You have not played fair with us.”
“Mary was never cold,” said Stefan dully, ignoring her accusation.
“That makes it worse.” She sat like a ramrod; her face might have been ivory; her hands lay folded across the open letter.